By Nuzhat Mushtaq
I met a young woman, not older than 25, draped in a white dupatta,
Her curly hair cascading over her shoulders, tears in her eyes, bloodstains on her neck, a sight that shook me.
She beckoned me to inspect the injury,
I noticed fresh blood oozing from a wound on her head,
unveiling her tale of suffering from domestic violence, or perhaps the harsh reality of a love marriage.
She wept, and I tried my best to offer solace,
“Where are you headed?” I inquired.
Her response pierced through me, “I need to confide in my parents, report the abuse to the Police Station; I cannot endure this torment.”
As I pondered her plight while walking alone, I boarded a bus to my workplace.
Attempting to resume normalcy, I found myself consumed by thoughts of her throughout the day.
